May 21, 2026

It was 1972, in a quiet coastal town not far from Mangalore.

Each time Narahari Bhat stepped into the washroom, he leaned toward the tiny ventilation window and peeped outside. The water from his bath flowed out through a pipe, spilling directly into the garden. The garden thrived on that daily stream. In that narrow strip of earth grew banana plants, papaya and guava trees, a couple of coconut palms, and right beside the washroom wall, a beautiful clump of thick, dark sugarcane rooted in the wet mud.

The black, stout sugarcane stood ready for harvest. Pride warmed him as he waited for his wife’s signal to finally taste it. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, he would check on the sugarcane, and that gave him immense satisfaction. If anyone touched it, he would get furious. There were about twenty two houses in that neighborhood. Most of them were upper caste Hindus, and they held Brahmins in special regard. Because of that, no one dared touch the sugarcane belonging to Narahari Bhat. People still feared the curse of a Brahmin.

This fear lived in the hearts of the neighbors, and because of it, no one dared to offend him. Yet Narahari Bhat often wondered whether families from other faiths saw him the same way. There was the Muslim family a few blocks away, the Christian household of Cecelia, and later, the rented house opposite the bus garage where Kamini came to live. Haider and Usman, the two boys from the Muslim family, had quit high school and spent their days wandering the streets. Bhat had heard rumors that they sometimes stole tender coconuts from nearby fields.

Cecelia was a woman of firm religious values and quiet moral sense. Her husband served in the military, but their youngest son, Timothy, was endlessly mischievous. A private bus garage stood directly in front of Narahari Bhat’s house. Every evening, after finishing their routes, the drivers parked their buses there. By morning, they would roll them out again, leaving the yard empty through most of the day. On holidays, that open space became Timothy’s cricket ground, where he and his gang played until the sun dipped behind the coconut trees.

Timothy’s sixers often crashed against Narahari Bhat’s windows and doors. Bhat complained angrily, but Timothy remained utterly unbothered. Even Cecelia’s scoldings made no difference; the boy never changed. His cricket alone was enough to irritate Bhat. Cecelia drew water from the government well and carried the pots past Bhat’s back door. Sometimes Timothy accompanied her, helping her lift the heavy vessels. Each time they passed, Bhat was certain the sight of the sugarcane behind his washroom would catch Timothy’s eye. The thought unsettled him. What if the boy, mischievous as he was, cut and stole the thick, dark stalks he had tended with such pride.

The third danger, in Narahari Bhat’s mind, was Kamini. She had arrived in the neighborhood only seven months earlier, renting a small one room apartment beside the bus garage. She lived with her two children, an older girl and a younger boy, and no husband. No one knew her story. People whispered that she must have lived many lives before coming here, but no one truly knew where she had spent her forty years. Her arrival unsettled the neighborhood’s sense of order. The men, especially, seemed affected. Some grew restless, some excited, and some simply curious. To Bhat, it felt as though Kamini’s presence had stirred something in the air, something that made the moral ground beneath the community shift ever so slightly.

It seemed that rolling beedis was Kamini’s main source of income. Every morning, once her children left for school, she sat at her doorstep, her sari draped loosely over her shoulder as she worked. People often noticed her there, and the sight stirred whispers. Some men lingered longer than necessary, stopping by under the pretext of asking for water or conversation. An unspoken rule soon formed in the neighborhood: if the basket of half rolled beedis was left outside her door, it meant Kamini was busy with a visitor, and the others stayed away. No one admitted to knowing what went on inside, but everyone behaved as though they did.

The bus company manager, Divakar Kamat, was considered a respectable man. Yet his lunch break visits to Kamini’s apartment did not go unnoticed. Women whispered that very few men managed to keep their distance from her charm. Still, according to neighborhood opinion, two men remained untouched by her influence. The first was Cecelia’s husband, the military man. He returned home for two months each year, spending his days drinking Cecelia’s coffee, playing with the children, and quietly enjoying his military rum. He had no interest in Kamini, and though people said she had tried to draw his attention, he never responded. Because of this, the neighborhood believed Kamini harbored a quiet resentment toward Cecelia.

The second man, according to neighborhood gossip, was Savitri’s husband, Narahari Bhat. He ran a medical agency business, and their two children were studying in America. In those days, he was the only man in the neighborhood who owned both a car and a telephone. One afternoon, his Volkswagen Beetle broke down in front of the house. Seeing him struggling, Kamini hurried over with her children to help push the car. She seemed almost eager for the opportunity. As they pushed, her sari shifted loosely with the effort, and in the rear view mirror, Bhat caught an unexpected glimpse of her cleavage. The moment flustered him; he forgot to change the gear, and the car jerked awkwardly.

When Kamini and her children helped push the car, the news reached Savitri within hours. She scolded her husband sharply. “If the car breaks down, take a bus, or walk. But don’t let Kamini push it,” she warned.

Because of Bhat’s strained relationship with the neighborhood boys, none of them ever came forward to help him with such tasks. Kamini and her children, however, were always happy, and almost too eager to lend a hand.

Kamini’s attempts to befriend Savitri also failed.

Once, she came to Savitri’s door and asked, “May I make a phone call to my sister?”

Savitri replied, “The phone is out of order,” and shut the door.

Another time, Kamini visited the house while Savitri was bathing. Bhat could not refuse her request; he understood the urgency of needing to make a call. Kamini finished her conversation before Savitri stepped out. As she spoke on the phone, Bhat found himself unexpectedly watching her closely, a moment that jarred him more than he cared to admit.

As Kamini stepped out, her sharp eyes fell on Narahari Bhat’s sugarcane.

“Your sugarcane has grown tall and strong. When will you cut it?” she whispered.

“Ganesh Chaturthi. After four days,” Bhat replied, his voice softening.

“It must be very sweet. I would love to taste,” she asked, adjusting the draped loose end of her saree.

Bhat’s fair cheeks reddened.

“All rights over my sugarcane belong to Savitri,” he said. “It is her offering.”

Her request lingered in Bhat’s mind. Something in Kamini’s voice or perhaps her desperation, touched him, and for a moment he felt an urge to give her a small piece of his sugarcane. That evening, he cautiously asked Savitri whether they could cut it early, before someone stole it. He spoke of how tall it had grown, how thick and sweet it looked.

Savitri dismissed his worry. “Don’t trouble yourself. No one in this neighborhood dares touch Bhat’s sugarcane. I’ve taken a vow for Ganesh Chaturthi. On the festival night, we will sit together and taste it.”

Ganesh Chaturthi was only four days away. Would Narahari Bhat’s sugarcane survive until then? Even Savitri, usually steady and practical, felt a sudden, nameless fear.

The next day was Sunday. Bhat woke up early. After finishing his errands and the small household chores, he sat down with his tea when he heard the familiar sound of boys playing in the open bus garage. Their cricket irritated him; he never knew when the ball might strike his window or door. The boys, aged between ten and fifteen, were loud, fearless, and utterly undisciplined. He had stepped out and scolded them many times, but they never listened. They shouted back at him with scant respect.

For fifteen minutes the game continued. Then, suddenly, a ball shot through the window grill and landed squarely on his newspaper. Bhat’s blood boiled. He felt like storming outside and shouting at them again, but the moment he looked at the ball, his anger shifted. It was a brand new tennis ball.

He picked it up and placed it on the table. Outside, the game fell silent. Whispering followed. Five minutes passed. Then the doorbell rang. Bhat’s eyebrows twitched. He set his teacup down and opened the door.

Timothy stood there.

“Our ball fell inside your house,” Timothy said plainly. “Give it back.”

“I told you not to play here. You don’t listen,” Bhat snapped, his eyes widening. “You won’t get the ball.”

“Please…” Timothy’s voice softened.

“Get out from here,” Bhat said, his tone turning cold.

Timothy gave him a look of contempt and turned away. Feeling victorious, Bhat slammed the door. He thought: From now on, even if the ball falls inside, they won’t dare ask. Timothy’s disappointed face gave him great satisfaction. That night passed, and by morning, his happiness received the worst jolt.

But the ten to twelve sugarcane stalks he had lovingly grown behind the washroom had vanished completely!

Narahari Bhat felt as though he had been kicked into the depths of a steep valley. When Savitri saw the sugarcane stolen, her eyes filled with tears. Bhat struggled to absorb the shock. The sweet sugarcane he had planned to offer during the festival was gone. Only the chewed out bagasse lay scattered along the riverbank.

He sat alone on the verandah, stunned. Soon the neighborhood buzzed with whispers. Kamini spread the news that she had seen the thief. Though Savitri disliked Kamini, she sent word asking her to come and hear the full story. Savitri, reluctant but desperate, invited Kamini through the back door. Bhat joined them.

After listening to Kamini’s account, Narahari Bhat went straight to the police station.

“I want to file a theft complaint,” he said.

“When did the theft happen? Last night?” the inspector asked. “Money? Gold?”

“No money or gold,” Bhat snapped. “Last night my sugarcane was stolen from my kitchen garden. I have proof of the theft.”

“Sugarcane theft?” He let out a short laugh. “How many sugarcanes? A hundred? Two hundred?” The inspector stared at him.

“About ten to twelve,” Bhat said angrily. “My wife had grown them for Ganesh Chaturthi.”

“Who is the suspect?” The inspector leaned back.

“Our neighbor’s son,” Bhat said. “A Christian boy. A rude character. His name is Timothy. Father is in the military.”

“And who is the witness?”

“Our neighbor woman, Kamini.”

“Kamini?” The inspector raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard about her. Her character is already on our radar. We should raid her house someday. How do you know her?”

“I don’t know her,” Bhat replied nervously. “She came forward on her own to stand as a witness.”

The inspector smirked.

“Is she a genuine witness, or is she showing concern to gain your friendship?” His tone turned mocking. “I doubt her motive. Don’t fall for her tricks. Mr. Bhat, you are a respectable man. And you’re filing a complaint for ten or twelve sugarcanes?”

‘Yes.”

“Children must have done it. When I was young, I also stole mangoes, cashews, sapodilla, guavas from neighbors. Should I have been jailed for such mischiefs?” He leaned back in his chair.

The inspector’s sarcasm left Bhat helpless. As soon as he stepped out of the police station, he spread the news that he had filed a complaint. His bluff worked, at least partly. He informed Cecelia about it when she came to fetch water. Cecelia felt ashamed. That evening, when Timothy returned from school, she made him stand before the altar.

“Tell me the truth. Did you steal Bhat’s sugarcane?” She twisted his ear. “Bhat has filed a police complaint. He told me Kamini has agreed to be his witness to the theft.”

Police complaint? Timothy froze. A chill ran through him. Would he be taken through the public road in a procession? That would be unbearable humiliation.

“I didn’t steal the sugarcane, Mom,” Timothy said truthfully. “Bhat refused to return our new cricket ball. It made us angry. I just mentioned to the cricket boys that Bhat’s sugarcane looked sweet. Pradeep, Keshav, Haider, and the others stole it last night. I wasn’t part of the theft. I was just sitting with them, so they gave me a small piece. I ate it.”

“You idiot, that’s why you skipped prayers last evening. You are a devil,” she snapped, pinching his ear. “I’ll tell your father to put you in military school. And listen, Bhat has warned that you must not pass through the back door to draw water. From now on, you will walk a long distance to fetch it. That is your punishment.”

“Did Narahari Bhat really say that?” Timothy’s anger flared. “You should have threatened him. Dad could file a complaint from the military office if he troubles us. He stole my cricket ball. If I puncture his junk car tyre, then he will understand.”

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Cecelia sighed. “Stay away from trouble. Stop cricket and focus on your studies.”

Timothy’s face fell. He became silent. A question arose in Cecelia’s mind: if the boys had stolen the sugarcane together, why had Kamini mentioned only Timothy’s name? She had never meant any harm to Kamini. What, then, had caused this hidden hatred?

That evening, dark rain clouds gathered without warning. Strong winds swept through the neighborhood, followed by lightning and rolling thunder. The night turned into a storm. Rain poured without pause. With the power supply cut, the entire neighborhood drowned in darkness.

In the flashes of lightning, Savitri and Narahari Bhat prepared to sleep.

Around ten o’clock, there was a knock on Bhat’s front door. Holding an oil lamp, he walked toward it. Savitri followed close behind.

“Who is it?” he asked, opening the door.

“I am Kamini,” came the trembling voice. “We are scared.”

Bhat opened the door. Kamini stood there, clutching her sari tightly, pushing her two small children in front of her. They were soaked, dripping water onto the verandah. Her blouse and sari were drenched from the storm, clinging to her skin in the dim lantern light. Bhat felt a sudden, unwelcome impulse to reach out and dry her with a towel.

“Why did you come here?” Savitri asked sharply. “If anything happens, come during the day. Now go back home.”

“I want your protection,” Kamini pleaded. “Because I gave information about the sugarcane theft, maybe the boys got angry. For the past ten minutes, someone has been throwing stones at my house. If the roof tiles break and fall on my children… If you give me shelter for tonight, it will be a great help.”

Tears rolled down Kamini’s cheeks.

“I’ll spread a mat. You can sleep in the living room,” Bhat said, ignoring Savitri’s glare.

Bhat pushed the table aside and spread a mat. He handed towels to Kamini and her children. After settling them, he returned to the bedroom with the lantern. Ever since the sugarcane theft, Savitri’s face had been shadowed with suspicion toward Kamini. She had shown no interest in the sugarcane Bhat had bought from the market.

“Why did you let that shameless woman into our house?” Savitri burst out. “Our home is polluted. Tomorrow morning I must wash the entire place and purify it with prayers.”

“She helped us in the sugarcane matter,” Bhat said, lying down beside her. “In the morning, when it’s daylight, I’ll send her away. Everything will be fine.”

But everything did not feel fine. After Kamini’s arrival, a strange restlessness had settled in his body, a feeling he did not want to acknowledge. He shifted closer to his wife, seeking comfort, steadiness, something familiar.

Savitri turned away.

“I took a vow abstinence until Ganesh Chaturthi,” she said quietly. “Our children have grown up and left us. We are getting old. Still, you cannot find peace.”

Bhat sighed helplessly and turned away. The room went dark. Around five in the morning, Savitri suddenly woke up. She didn’t know when the electricity had returned. The fan was spinning. Her husband was not beside her. Her heart skipped a beat.

As she opened the bedroom door, Narahari Bhat stepped in, drops of mud clinging to his silky, transparent white dhoti. His clothes were soaked.

“Where did you go at this hour?” she yelled, staring at him.

“I went to plant sugarcane in the wet mud. The storm has just calmed down,” he said wearily.

“Planting sugarcane before sunrise? What madness is this?” Savitri scolded. “It’s better if that Kamini leaves this place and never visits us again.”

“She has gone. I saw them leaving. I couldn’t sleep all night. I’m taking some rest now,” Bhat said, lying down and closing his eyes.

Days passed. Whispers spread through the neighborhood as gold ornaments began appearing around Kamini’s neck. No one knew where the money had come from.

Meanwhile, Bhat tried repeatedly to plant sugarcane buds in the softened earth. But nothing sprouted. The piped wastewater had created a small, stagnant pond in the corner of the kitchen garden. The soil turned black, giving off a faint rotten smell.

After this incident, Savitri’s mental state began to deteriorate. She would shout at neighbors, at passersby, even at her own husband. Like a wandering storyteller, she spoke endlessly, her words drifting without meaning.

Bhat did not take her for psychological treatment. People began whispering that after Bhat’s sugarcane was stolen, his wife could not bear the shock, and slowly lost her mind.